


And I Could See For Miles, Miles, Miles

by CloudAtlas



Series: A Safety In The End [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bisexuality, Clint and Natasha are MEAN to poor James, Danny Rand somehow becomes a plotpoint?, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Multi, POV Natasha Romanov, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - F/M/M, Tickle Fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Clint and Natasha hit an important milestone in their relationship.





	And I Could See For Miles, Miles, Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by **inkvoices**. Title from [Holocene by Bon Iver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWcyIpul8OE). Probably take place about two months after And Love Is Left In End. It's June-ish, I think.
> 
>  **ETA Dec 2018:** This fic has now been Ameripicked by the wonderful **meatball42**.  <3
> 
> cw: discussion of murdered parents and related unpleasantness

“What are you doing back?” Natasha asks as Clint shuffles in the door not half an hour after leaving for his shift at the bar.

“Um.” Clint rubs his hand over the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Kate sent me back.”

Natasha gives him an assessing look. “Why?”

“I might have… taken most of Luke’s shifts?”

Natasha stares at him.

“It’s been nearly a month since Danielle was born.”

“Yeah,” Clint says.

“And you’ve essentially been working double shifts.”

Her voice is flat with disbelief.

“Basically,” he replies.

Natasha stares at him some more. Under normal circumstances, Natasha would be interrogating herself at this juncture, trying to work out how it is she managed to miss just how utterly _shattered_ Clint looks. But then, work at Shield has been batshit _insane_ over the past three weeks – a cyber-attack on Stark Industries important enough that the fucking government had to get involved – so it’s not actually that surprising that she’s missed things.

Still, he looks like shit.

“You’re an idiot,” she says finally, gesturing for him to join her on the couch. Due to the aforementioned cyber-attack, Natasha has been granted three days leave to recover – last week she didn’t even manage to _go home_ for three days straight – and she’d decided that spending her time at Clint’s would be nicer than being at her own apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. A decision not at all influenced by the fact that she bumped into Matt Murdock last time she was grocery shopping.

Clint slumps down next to her, not even removing his shoes.

“It might have been a dumb idea.”

“ _Might_ have been?” Natasha replies incredulously. “There’s no _might_ about it, Hufflepuff. That was grade A, hand-reared, thick cut stupidity right there.”

“I regret knowing you.”

Natasha smiles at Clint’s mulish expression, kissing him on the temple as her heart does that alarming flip thing it tends to do around Clint. He’s just… He just won’t have wanted to put anyone else out. And it’s not like he had to give Luke parental leave. He owns a bar for fucks sake; no one gives parental leave to bar-staff. But Jess had been early and Luke had been worried and Clint can pretend that he’s a hardass all he wants but in reality he’s a giant softy who cares about his staff. Just because Jess was early didn’t mean Clint was going to renege on a promise, even if it fucks up his staffing schedule horribly. And Clint Barton will ruin himself before he lets anyone else get inconvenienced.

“You love me,” she says teasingly. “I’m the light of your life.”

Clint grumbles and shifts until he’s leaning more heavily against her. He smells of shampoo and shaving cream and _skin_ , a seemingly innocuous combination that sometimes Natasha thinks she’s addicted to, she loves it so much. Not that she’s ever going to tell him that; he’ll say something about ‘manly musk’ and she’ll have to punch him and, in the grand scheme of things, staying quiet is much less effort.

“Did your work mess work out?” Clint mumbles after a while.

“Yeah.”

“Did you work out who it was?”

“Russians.”

Clint sits up a little straighter.

“Did you get hauled in for questioning?” he asks with a grin. “Did they quiz you about loyalties? Are you a _spy_ , Tash? Duping dumb Americans into giving up their secrets?”

Natasha cuffs him around the head. “Shut up, you. You’re not funny, you know.”

“I’m a joy to be around,” Clint replies.

She snorts and Clint grins, presumably at her lack of any kind of comeback, and then they sit for a while, propped against each other, just enjoying the proximity.

 

Unsurprisingly, Clint falls asleep on the couch.

Natasha watches him breathe for a while before gently untangling their limbs, removing his hearing aids, and getting up to make herself a cup of tea. She digs out the teabags from where Clint’s hidden them – up top, left hand cupboard, behind the flour – and fills her mug with hot water from the massive coffee machine she pretends she doesn’t know how to use. One teabag. Leave to steep for five minutes and then add a teaspoon of sugar. Stir. The spoon makes a ringing noise as she taps it against the rim of her cup and if she were with anyone else she’d worry about the noise waking them up, but Clint sleeps on oblivious.

She sits in the wingback armchair facing the couch and watches the rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful like this; quiet and young.

She’s got three days leave so, including the weekend, she’s got five days off. She doesn’t have to go back to Manhattan until Tuesday next week. Originally, because she knew Clint would be working and James would be upstate with his family celebrating his father’s sixtieth birthday, she and Pepper had had vague plans to visit MoMA, but the whole cyber-attack meant Pepper had to knock heads all through Stark Industries legal team instead, so that idea was scuppered. As a result, she’s at a bit of a loose end. It’s not that she can’t entertain herself, but her friends are few and five days off work seemed like a daunting amount of time to spend in her own company.

But now Clint has been, in all probability, banned from entering the bar for at least a week.

Natasha has plans to make.

 

Natasha’s Aunt Vassa has a place just over the border in Pennsylvania. She never seemed the type, but then her husband died younger than expected and she needed to find new and inventive ways to fill her time. In Vassa’s case, she took up hiking and crochet, and the house is outfitted accordingly, crocheted throws over the couch and chairs and walking poles behind the door. She calls it her chicken house, like the one from Baba Yaga stories, and spends weeks here just walking the hills, and Natasha has a standing offer to use it whenever she wants.

Natasha unlocks the door and immediately makes a circuit of the place, opening the windows to air the rooms. Clint, meanwhile, toes off his boots, looking very out of place among the crocheted couch throws and ceramic elephants.

“Why are we here again?”

“I wanted a break and, conveniently, you’ve been forced to take a break by Kate. So here we are.”

Clint looks around, slightly bewildered. “Right.”

A witty remark about acting like he’s never had a vacation before is on the tip of Natasha's tongue but she bites it down as the sudden thought occurs to her: maybe he _hasn’t_. Clint doesn’t live hand to mouth by any means, but his job is such that he can’t really leave for long periods of time. Apart from the two weeks a year he ekes out to visit his family in Iowa, Natasha's not sure if Clint’s had a vacation _ever._ His time in San Fran doesn’t count; he was working then too and much less well-off than he is now.

She wonders if he even has a passport.

“Down there,” she says instead, pointing down the wood-panelled corridor. “Bedroom on the right, bathroom straight ahead.”

Clint takes their bags while Natasha unpacks their groceries into the cupboards.

She likes this place; Vassa had brought her here for the first time a year after Uncle Sasha died, tentative and unsure in that way people can be when starting your life again feels like a betrayal to the ones you’ve lost. They’d listened to Sasha’s favourite records, drank spiced wine and proper Russian tea, and shared the only bed like they hadn’t done since Natasha was six and terrified of sleeping alone in case Vassa and Sasha died just like her parents. She’d been back with Vassa since then, as well as once with Sharon on a spring getaway a couple of years back. She should come back more often.

“It’s very… small,” Clint says and Natasha jumps, almost hitting her head on an open cupboard door.

“Shit, sorry.” His left hand closes over the corner of the door while his right comes to a rest on her head for protection, as if that accomplishes anything at all.

“Sorry,” Natasha says, carefully closing the door and turning to face him. Her chest brushes his, they’re standing so close. “I was miles away.”

“No worries.” Clint smiles and then looks unsure again.

“What?”

“I just…” he skims his palms down her arms to take her hands in his. “This feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I – ” He stops, cutting himself off and frowning at something just past her shoulder. “I don’t… I feel like we’re doing this all backwards. I haven’t… I’ve never met your aunt, Tash, and now we’re staying in her cabin in Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.” He frowns again, but his thumbs sweep over the backs of her hands and that’s reassuring for some reason. “I think I’m still just tired. Or maybe… I dunno.”

His eyes meet hers; blue and clear and slightly troubled, but honest and open all the same.

“How about I get some food started and you go out into the lean-to out back and find the porch swing Vassa keeps in there. The cushions for it are in the wardrobe in our room.”

“I can cook if you want,” Clint says, well aware of her general dislike of the process. But she wants to today. She always cooks when she comes here.

Natasha smiles and kisses him on the cheek.

“My treat,” she says, “now shoo.”

 

She makes chili, because she can make it from memory and because it involves _just_ enough simmering for her to be able to leave the pot alone to stare at the flex of Clint’s arms as he strings up the porch swing, but not so much that she gets caught.

They eat out on the newly strung up porch swing, overlooking acres of forest and not much else. She can almost smell the grass growing, everything is so green, and the sky is still a wide, open blue despite the fact that it’s coming close to seven in the evening. Clint’s wearing some dorky-ass, purple-lensed Aviators that Natasha's pretty sure are Kate’s and Natasha's wearing a t-shirt she stole from Clint’s closet, which she’s also pretty sure was once Kate’s, and she’s honestly so happy she can’t help grinning at everything.

“What are you grinning about?” Clint says into the mouth of his beer.

“Nothing,” she replies, leaning over to kiss him just because she can. Clint looks sort of startled and the odd, unsure expression slides back onto his face before he manages to hide it away again.

Natasha lets him be. When he’s worked it out, he’ll tell her.

They sit out watching the sky turn from blue, to pale yellow, to orange, to the deep blue of summer nights before the long drive and long week in general (or _month_ if you’re Clint and an idiot) catch up with them and they head off to bed.

Clint’s right; this place is tiny. Natasha had forgotten.

The double bed only really has a foot of space all the way around it thanks to the massive set of shelves Vassa has squeezed in, filled half with books and half with knickknacks. The built in wardrobe is stuffed with everything that doesn’t fit in the main room or the lean-to shed out back and the heavy green velvet curtains make everything look close. She keeps misjudging the space and knocking into the furniture. Or Clint, who’s apparently decided that standing in the middle of what little space they have is a great idea.

“You look cute,” he says, pointing at one of the four photos propped up on the bookshelves.

The photo is of Natasha, about eight years old, sandwiched between Sasha and Vassa on a picnic quilt, grinning to show off where she’s missing two teeth. She’s not sure who would have taken the photo, though maybe it’s from one of their trips out to the Black Sea with Vassa’s friend Yuliya and her husband. Her eyes skip over the two middle photos – Sasha and Vassa on their wedding day, and Vassa and herself from their last vacation together – to land on the last.

“That’s my dad,” she says quietly, pointing at the man in the photo; a handsome man with dark hair and bright blue eyes. “And that’s my mom.”

Natasha looks a lot like her mom.

There’s a long silence. Clint has never asked what happened to her parents, or why she was brought up by her aunt and uncle, or why they eventually moved to the States. Clint will only accept what people are willing to share and has almost a sixth sense for topics people just don’t want to discuss. It’s one of the many things she finds endlessly reassuring about him.

“They were killed in 1993,” she says after a while, surprising even herself. “They were government officials working in reconstruction. No one ever found out why they were killed.” She doesn’t speak for a moment then, instead staring at her mother’s glossy smile.

“I was five,” she continues quietly. “Vassa and Sasha took me in and we stayed in Russia but. Vassa wasn’t happy. No one was convicted, so… We moved when I was eleven.” She shrugs. “I don’t think either of them ever regretted the decision.”

Clint wraps an arm gently around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Tash,” he says, after pressing a kiss to her hairline. There’s no pity in his voice and the words don’t raise her hackles in the way they so often can. She doesn’t miss her parents; she can’t really. She never knew them, she was too young. Her mother is only the feeling of silk under her hands; her father only the smell of aftershave. It’s more like she misses the idea of them, or their _possibility_.

She doesn’t tell this story often because people don’t seem to understand that. But it seems Clint does.

“Let’s go to bed,” she says after a while.

And Clint says, “Okay.”

 

The next day Natasha takes Clint up the hill behind the cabin. The view is spectacular and the walk taxing but not exhausting.

Neither of them speak much, they just walk in companionable silence through lush trees so green the colour feels tangible. It feels different than usual, though Natasha can’t quite work out why. Maybe it’s the way Clint looks at home here, among the trees and grass. She always forgets that Clint grew up in the country. He seems New York down to his bones.

They get back to the cabin around five and Clint heads straight for the fridge, pulling out two beers and handing one to Natasha before taking a swig of his own.

“You said there was a barbeque?”

“ _And_ a fire pit,” Natasha replies.

“And by fire pit you mean…?”

“A rusted oil drum we found in the woods.”

Clint nods seriously, like that’s what he expected. The he smiles, bright and carefree.

“Steak and beer?”

“You’re on, Hufflepuff.”

So Clint heads back out to the lean-to behind the cabin and digs around until he finds where the barbeque is hidden under its tarp while Natasha checks that they have everything they need in the fridge. She doesn’t want to have to drive over to the supermarket on the golf course. It’s always full of awful men in tan pants and her day has been too nice for that shit.

Oh good. They also have wine. She and Clint are great at essential getaway shopping.

“We should probably start with the fire pit right?” Clint says, coming back in the door. “If we want baked potatoes or anything.”

Natasha frowns. “You can’t bake potatoes in an oil drum, Clint.”

Clint opens his mouth to protest but then frowns back at her. “Okay, point. Why the fire pit then?”

“For the fire part,” Natasha replies. “Also, I bought marshmallows.”

“And graham crackers?”

“And chocolate.”

Clint fist pumps like a kid.

“Awesome,” he says, grinning. “This is going to be great.”

And, despite the minor drama of Clint accidentally setting his shirt on fire – though ‘only a little bit!’ – it is. They spread themselves out on the grass in front of Vassa’s cabin, on top of all the picnic blankets Natasha could scrounge up, and drink their way through two bottles of wine while eating more food than is sensible and WhatsApping James poop emojis and photos of each other pulling chipmunk faces. Which turns out to be a wonderful idea because in return James sends a photo of him and a woman who is clearly his sister pulling faces from a hot tub and Clint’s reply of [wow your sister’s hot] gets back the most perfect [Clint Barton don’t you dare]. Obviously, Natasha can’t see James’ face, but she can _imagine_ it and the mental image has her in stitches for a good five minutes. People who say Natasha's bitch face is good have clearly never seen James’.

“More wine?” Clint asks, once Natasha has regained her composure.

“Please.”

She stares out over the woods, still smiling to herself, the fire in the oil drum finally casting dancing shadows now darkness is drawing in. It really is very battered, propped up on two breeze blocks to keep it off the ground. Vassa had found it on the edge of town, half buried in mud and leaves. It was so rusted it only required heavy gloves and a lot of hard work to pull it open enough to use as a fire pit. Vassa had been so pleased with herself when she’d shown Natasha the results Natasha couldn’t help but tease her, but Natasha loves open flames too much not to use it – plus, actual fire pits are _ridiculously_ expensive.

“I’ve worked it out,” Clint says after a while.

“Worked what out?” she replies absentmindedly. The flames are mesmerising.

“Why this feels weird.”

Clint’s words take a moment to sink in, but when they do she sits up straighter, turning to face him.

“Why?”

She’s not sure she’s successful in hiding the tiny tremor of apprehension that wants to slip out. This has been so _nice_ ; she doesn’t want anything ruining that.

“Hey,” Clint says gently, brushing his fingertips over her cheek, “it’s okay. It’s nothing bad.”

Definitely unsuccessful in hiding her apprehension.

“It’s just…” Clint looks out over the fire and the woods and the now-starry sky. “This is… I mean. Um, we’ve not – we’ve.” He cuts himself off.

“So hey,” he starts again with a grin. “Remember when I said I’d worked it out? Apparently that didn’t extend to being able to articulate it.”

Natasha snorts out a laugh and relaxes. If Clint can genuinely joke about it, it definitely can’t be bad.

“Take your time,” she says, taking another sip of her wine. “Just, you know, not _too_ long, or I’ll be too drunk to pay proper attention.”

Clint’s quiet for a moment, picking at the open bag of marshmallows neither of them have got round to toasting yet. Natasha watches the firelight play over his fingers before slowly dragging her gaze over the rest of him. God, but he looks good.

“Okay,” Clint says abruptly. “We’ve been together a long time, even though we haven’t. Right?”

Natasha nods because – yeah. They’ve been officially together three months. Unofficially, they’ve probably been together for about four years.

“Right. So.” Clint grabs another marshmallow and shoves it into his mouth before continuing. “But we sort of… We existed in each other’s spaces, but they were always… We were either at my place or yours, right?”

Natasha nods again, unsure as to where this is going.

“And we’ve never gone away together. So there’s never been a place that didn’t feel like, I dunno. Like it belonged to _us_? Does that make sense?”

Natasha nods, then frowns before shaking her head.

Clint snorts out a soft laugh.

“Figures,” he mumbles, scrubbing his hand over his head and taking a sip of wine. He then shuffles a little closer to Natasha, until she can feel his arm brush up against hers.

“I feel like…” he starts once more. “I feel like we’ve talked a lot about us and James, with each other and with James, but we haven’t talked at all about just _us_. We went from being… whatever we were before to a _triad_ without the bit in the middle where we work out how to be just _us_ , officially. I’m not complaining, don’t think I am, because seriously, I am super not jazzed about anyone trying to make James leave but.” He takes a breath. “Being here, in a place that isn’t really yours and definitely isn’t mine, made me realise that we’ve never just been _us_ , officially.”

Natasha's eyes have been getting steadily wider as Clint speaks and she’s fairly sure that now he’s done she looks a little like a dumb, confused dog.

“Oh.”

Clint snorts again and leans over to kiss her on her slack mouth.

“It’s mostly a realisation,” Clint says with a smile. “It’s not like – I know you pretty well; I don’t feel like we need to do the whole ‘finding who we are as a couple’ thing because, well, we’ve been pretty open with each other from the start and always made sure we were on the same page and all so it’s… It’s mostly just me going, ‘oh wow, this is new and unexpected and feels weird but not in a bad way’. You know?”

Natasha blinks.

“You okay?”

“Yes!” The question startles her into action. “Yes, sorry. That’s just…” Natasha waves her hands in a vague, all-encompassing motion. “Have you ever heard people describe those moments where something suddenly becomes clear and makes everything make more sense as being like ‘the moment you realise the weird squiggle at the beginning of the Disney logo is in fact a ‘D’?’ I was having one of those.”

Because yeah, suddenly a lot of little things about Clint make sense now that he’s said that. Nothing earth shattering, but just little things, like how he always makes sure that she has her own mugs and tea and shampoo at his place. Like how, before repainting his downstairs bathroom, he’d asked her opinion on colours. Like how he always folds his clothes up when he’s at hers, even though he’s never once bothered when she’s at his.

Home for Clint Barton is definitely, in part, a physical place.

Clint laughs. “You’re so weird.”

“Mmm.” She leans over and kisses him. “You like it though.”

Clint hums in agreement and obligingly rearranges himself so Natasha can lean against his chest. It’s kind of awkward, because Natasha would really like it if Clint actually _held_ her, but he’s got nothing to lean against so both his arms are busy propping the two of them up.

“Lie down,” she says after a moment. “I want to cuddle.”

Clint groans theatrically and suddenly Natasha is pitching backwards as, instead of a gentle rearranging of bodies, Clint just let his arms give way. Natasha lets out a little undignified screech and when she lands back on Clint’s chest she can feel him laughing. Asshole.

“God, you’re the worst.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint wraps his arms around her and rolls them over so he’s spooning her whilst simultaneously trapping her arms by her side.

“Get off me, you dick.” Natasha flails a little. “You’re like a fucking octopus.”

In answer, Clint blows a raspberry on the back of her neck, tightening his hold so she can’t squirm away, but her elbow connects with his ribs and he grunts in pain.

“Ha!” she crows, sitting up. “Serves you right, you asshole.”

“Your elbows are fucking pointy, woman.” Clint groans while clutching his side like the drama queen he is.

“I’ll show you fucking pointy,” Natasha mutters, digging her fingers into his side and making Clint yelp and try to crab-walk away.

The ensuing tickle fight is magnificent in its inelegance and utter lack of dignity. They knock over both (mercifully mostly empty) glasses of wine, Natasha manages to get potato in her hair from their discarded plates and Clint almost kicks over the oil drum. But it only _really_ ends when Natasha accidentally knees Clint between the legs while trying to get away from his tickling and Clint’s knee-jerk reaction results in him head-butting her in the face.

“Oh my fucking god,” Natasha mumbles, rolling onto her back and clutching her nose. “What the fuck, Barton.”

“Serves you fucking right,” Clint shoots back, curled up with his hands cupped protectively around his dick. “See if I ever have sex with you again.”

Natasha looks over at him, this stupid, ridiculous human being who doesn’t even know he’s managed to land his head on a fork in such a way as to make it stand straight up, the tines caught in his hair. Suddenly her chest feels so full it’s liable to explode, her body not big enough to contain all this _feeling_.

And then Clint rolls over a little further, frowns, and sits up to peel a potato skin from the side of his face. And he looks so _affronted_ – like, how _dare_ that potato skin, on top of _everything else_ – that Natasha can’t help herself. She descends into howling, shuddering, uncontrollable laughter.

“You’re a deeply unpleasant woman,” Clint says and Natasha regains enough composure to look at him through tears of laughter; he’s smiling and looking at her fondly and still has potato stuck to his cheek. “C’mon, you idiot, you have potato in your hair.”

“You have it on your cheek,” Natasha manages to choke out as gentle fingers remove lumps of root vegetable and gravy from her hair. Clint curses and rubs at his face.

It takes them a good five minutes to calm down after that, the memory of Clint’s affronted expression enough to unexpectedly send Natasha into fits of giggles all over again. But they get there in the end, relaxed and happy with new glasses of wine, and all the plates moved out of the way, and potato still in places potato shouldn’t be because the evening is too nice to waste it showering for something so stupid and hilarious.

Natasha does find a couple of cushions though, so Clint has something to lean against _and_ still be able to hold onto Natasha. It’s a good development.

“So,” Natasha starts after about fifteen minutes of just watching the fire. It’s dark properly now, the only light coming from the fire and the porch. It paints Clint gold, just like the fairy lights in his room. She’s still not going to tell him it suits him though. She needs to retain _some_ of her hard-ass, non-sappy persona.

“Hmm?”

“The house thing.”

“Huh?”

“Is there – can we do anything about it?”

“No?” Clint says after a moment, the word pitching up at the end into a confused sounding question. “I mean, it’s not something that necessarily needs fixing, it’s just a _thing_ , you know?”

Natasha tips her head against his chest to stare up at him, eyebrow raised. There’s obviously more to this whole little realisation than he’s letting on, she can tell.

“Yeah, but you’re pretty chill; you wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t have something on your mind.” She pats him on the arm. “I know you, you see.”

“Really,” Clint replies, his voice flat enough to fool someone who doesn’t know him that well. Natasha can hear the smile though.

“Yes, really.” She looks back at the fire pit. Flames really are hypnotic. “So what’s on your mind? Should we go on a vacation together? That could be fun. James can come.”

Actually, regardless of what Clint says now, they should absolutely go on a vacation together. She could stand to see Clint – and James – in trunks emerging from the surf, or whatever it is people do on vacation other than fuck.

“I don’t have the time, or money, for a vacation,” Clint grumbles, and this at least is true. Clint takes exactly two weeks off a year, in the summer, to visit his family in Iowa. She’s not sure he’s celebrated Christmas with anyone other than Kate or Simone for nearly ten years. The thought makes her sad, if she lets herself think about it.

“But that’s why you have me as your Sugar Mama,” she says pragmatically. “I’ll pay for the flights, and the margaritas, and the little gold speedos.”

Clint snorts out a laugh and Natasha can’t help but echo it. Clint would never let _anyone_ be his Sugar Anything. He’s way too independent for that, even if sometimes he really, _really_ needs someone to look out for him.

“C’mon, Clint,” she says, tipping her head back far enough to kiss his chin. “Spit it out.”

Natasha very rarely gets to see Clint Barton look sheepish, but he looks sheepish as fuck right now.

“Ah, okay, so.” He unwraps an arm from around her waist to run his hand through his hair and Natasha takes the opportunity to sit up and face him. “I think Danny from across the hall might be thinking of moving out? And… I was thinking of offering the place to you.”

It feels like her heart just flops over and plays dead. Natasha stares at him –

“If you wanted it.”

 – just long enough for Clint Barton to do something she’s not sure she’s _ever_ seen him do. Ramble.

“‘Cause, like, I know you don’t really want to stay in Hell’s Kitchen anymore because of – well, Matt? I guess? But probably other things too because – ha. You wouldn’t move just because of a guy. And. Well. I dunno. Danny keeps mumbling about Beijing and Seoul and Tokyo offices, and I don’t know what, and he said he might have to move, but he’s not sure and, like, we shouldn’t – I mean, we said? That we wouldn’t move in together. Or. Or, at least, that it would be dumb because we’re… Well, us. And hook-ups are hard when you live with someone and we don’t want to stop that unless… Unless you do? Um. But – ”

“Clint,” Natasha cuts in. “ _Breathe_.”

“Uh.” Jesus, he looks fucking _abashed_. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no.” She places a hand on his knee. “That’s actually…”

Really fucking sweet. Something she’d like to do. Actually fucking terrifying. Take your pick.

‘Cause the thing is, Natasha would have absolutely no problem with moving into Danny’s place. She’d have no problem moving into _Clint’s_ place, though she’s still on the fence about it actually being a workable idea for the two of them; she likes being able to bring people back to her place. She’s too old to fuck people in bathrooms. Plus, she feels like there might be something slightly _exclusionary_ about her moving into Clint’s place now that James is in the picture, which wouldn’t be an issue if she moved into Danny’s. Or, would at least be less of one. And yeah, she’s wanted to get out of Hell’s Kitchen for a while now, but there’s been no _real_ reason for her to go considering how close Hell’s Kitchen is to Shield. Occasionally bumping into Matt isn’t really a big enough reason on its own considering that, as long as she doesn’t say anything, _he’ll never know she’s there_. It’s a shitty thing to think, but your ex being blind is really helpful sometimes.

Brooklyn is really far from Shield, the commute would be a bitch. But Hell’s Kitchen is really far from Clint.

On the other hand, Clint doesn’t even know if Danny is actually moving.

“This silence is making me nervous.”

Natasha starts, snatching her hand back.

“Shit, sorry. I – ”

She wants to – she _really_ wants to actually – but she’s also not sure how to finish that sentence, so she cuts herself off. Starts again.

“Danny might not have to move.” Deflection. Buy time. Good idea. “Just because he’s, you know, _the man_ now doesn’t actually mean he’d have to move to Beijing or wherever. It’s not like his dad did. But if – ”

She cuts herself off again, but this time because Clint is staring at her like she’s grown another head.

“What?”

“What the fuck are you on about,” he says.

“Danny,” she replies. She thought that was _blindingly obvious_.

“What do you mean ‘he’s the man now’?”

Now it’s Natasha's turn to stare.

“Are you – are you seriously telling me you don’t know who Danny is?”

Clint pulls a dramatic _what_ face, all wide eyes and confused eyebrows. Fucking guileless, fucking _honest_. He genuinely has no clue who Danny is, Natasha can see it in his face.

“Jesus Christ, Clint. How do you not know that you rent one of your apartments to _Daniel fucking Rand_ of _Rand Meacham,_ who’s been all over the news for the past fucking year because _his father was murdered by his fucking business partner_?”

Clint looks like he’s just been slapped. To be fair, considering how long he’s lived there and how Clint’s pretty good at making people feel at ease and like they can share stuff with him, the fact that Danny managed to hide this from him is kind of impressive.

“He. What?” Clint flails overdramatically then stares at her again. “ _What_!?”

Natasha's not really sure what to say now. She’d bought herself time, figured it out. This was supposed to segue into her saying _yes_ ; _if_ Danny ever moves out she’ll happily take his apartment. Instead, Clint looks so honestly confused by her revelation that she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s forgotten the conversational roller-coaster that led them here.

It is possible her distraction was too good. On the other hand, who the fuck would fail to work out that the Danny who lives above Slings & Arrows is Daniel Rand? He’s a pretty famous dude.

“But he looks like a dirty hippie!” Clint suddenly explodes. “He likes yoga and tai chi and gets green tea delivered from China!”

Natasha laughs. “You can be all those things and still be the son of a famous businessman, Clint.” She stares at him a moment and then shakes her head. “Jesus. That was just supposed to be a lead up to me saying that if Danny was to move, I’d love to take his apartment.” She watches his expression morph from indignant confusion to surprised delight. “And I can’t believe you never worked out that Across-The-Hall-Danny is Daniel Rand.”

Clint rolls his eyes at her, but his smile slips slightly.

“Shit, I can’t believe Danny’s dad was murdered.” He frowns. “He hasn’t been acting different.”

“I don’t think they got along.” Natasha settles herself back against Clint’s chest, wrapping his arms around her waist and wriggling until she’s comfortable. “Like, at all. I get the impression that he’s more pissed that he’s suddenly in charge of a company he doesn’t care about than upset his dad is dead.”

Natasha actually knows a lot about the implosion of Rand Meacham and just how pissed Danny is because Shield did a lot of Rand Meacham’s cybersecurity. Also, her friend Jen Walters is one of the many lawyers employed by Danny to sort the mess out. Obviously, Jen hasn’t _told_ her anything – she takes client confidentiality seriously, as she should – but Natasha can infer.

Jen _did_ tell her that Matt is another of the lawyers, though. The completely impartial part of Natasha is pleased for him, but it’s mostly drowned out by the lust and guilt and shame and blinding, overwhelming fury that surfaces whenever she thinks about Matt for too long.

“Well, whatever.” The fire pops particularly loudly as she gestures imperiously for Clint to hand her wine over. “If Danny moves out, I’ll move in.”

Clint hugs her, dropping a kiss onto her hair and utterly failing to pass over her wine.

“Urgh,” Natasha grumbles. “You were supposed to pass me my wine.”

“Eh,” Clint sounds utterly unapologetic as he slides his hands under her sweater. “I can think of something better to do.”

Natasha mock gasps as Clint’s hands cup her breasts over her bra. “ _Clinton_ , are you suggesting we have sex _outside_?”

“Well, not if you call me Clinton we’re not.” Clint says. “But anyway, this is a special occasion. This would be _celebratory_ sex outside.”

“And what are we celebrating?” Natasha says impishly before gasping as Clint rolls her nipple between his fingers.

“Oh, you know,” he replies, “that adult milestone of agreeing to maybe move in across the hall from each other, depending entirely on a third party who has no idea what’s happening.”

Suddenly, he’s gripping her around the wait and hauling her up so he can scrape his teeth against her earlobe. Natasha turns to capture his mouth with hers instead.

“Oh _that_ milestone,” she murmurs when they finally part.

“Of course ‘that milestone’. We’re a very normal couple.”

He tugs at her sweater and t-shirt and manages to pull them both off in one go. Natasha goes to work on his pants as soon as her hands are free.

“I hate to break it to you, Hufflepuff,” she says between kisses, “but we’re not a couple. We have a _toyboy_.”

“I’m not old enough to have a toyboy,” Clint snorts, and then he stills. “Oh my God, Tash.”

“What?” she replies, suddenly wary. She’s in her bra, outside. If this is to happen, she can’t _think_ about it too much. But then she looks over at Clint to find he has the most evil, diabolical grin on his face.

“We should take photos and send them to James.”

James, who should be here and isn’t. James, who blushes so pretty. James, who’s currently somewhere Upstate with his entire family celebrating his father’s sixtieth birthday.

Natasha dives for her phone and Clint downright fucking _cackles_.

“Holy fucking shit, _yes_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [you JERKS im with MY FAMILY]  
> [oh my god stop it]  
> [guys come on]  
> [IM SHARING A ROOM WITH MY SISTER YOU MONSTERS]  
> [I cant jack off here ]  
> [???]  
> [Natasha why is there potato in your hair]


End file.
